


Easing The Burden (The Spanish Flu Remix)

by havisham



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aging, Influenza, M/M, Post-Canon, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-08 10:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15928304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: Many years have passed, but Watson is still the same. Fortunately, so is Holmes.





	Easing The Burden (The Spanish Flu Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [donutsweeper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutsweeper/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Easing the Burden](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13673649) by [donutsweeper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutsweeper/pseuds/donutsweeper). 
  * In response to a prompt by [donutsweeper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutsweeper/pseuds/donutsweeper) in the [remixrevivalmadness2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/remixrevivalmadness2018) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  I've written for well over 100 fandoms on AO3 and there's more on my LJ/DW (ficlist here: http://donutsweeper.livejournal.com/105293.html) but only 20 can be tagged for so I only included the more well known ones or ones with more stories above.
> 
> Safe fandom: Gotham

A doctor who could not heal was nothing but a damned nuisance. 

And once again, Watson felt the sting of uselessness, as his patients died around him. He had just left the house of Hetta Jones, having done little to alleviate the young woman’s suffering and knowing her life would end soon.

Over the years, he had drifted into the role of chronicler of his remarkable friend’s adventures and farther from the ever-expanding field of medicine. Indeed, it would be fair to say that Doctor Watson, a role he had worn for more than a half century, no longer quite fit him. 

Well, he was mostly retired now -- would, in fact, be completely retired save for that horrifying war that had taken his younger replacement away and left Watson in his place, painfully aware of his encroaching dotage. 

Fortunately, the country village that now was his and Holmes’ home -- as a pair of confirmed bachelors, naturally -- rarely had much in the way of medical emergencies. Watson could still patch up most farmyard accidents and deliver babies. 

He had been confident that he could return the community to Dr. Mathis’ capable hands -- at least, until the flu hit. 

The cases trickled in with the soldiers returning from the front. First the cities fell to it and then the suburbs and finally the countryside. There seemed no stopping it, though of course Watson parroted the things that one always told in such situations -- avoid contact with the sick, stay home if you were sick, practice good hygiene and live an otherwise healthy life. But none of that advice could stave off the terror of seeing a hale and hearty man, wake seemingly healthy one day and be at death’s door by evening. 

The sickness seemed to target the young and healthy, while leaving the old and relatively infirm alone. And add on top of that the conclusion of an all-too long, all-too bloody war, and it was easy to believe the world as he knew it was slipping off its axis. 

In his years with Holmes, Watson had come to believe that most things happened for a reason and if one was brilliant enough -- if one was Sherlock Holmes, that is -- the mysteries that baffled everyone could be a clear as day to you. But not even Holmes could solve the mysteries of the human body, of sudden death with no assassin. 

Watson sighed. He felt far older than even his sixty-four years would attest to. Holmes was right after all -- he made himself tired with his own dark imaginings. Soon he would give in to what Holmes had already accused him of doing -- that was to say, reading Hardy’s poems.

It had been a discouraging day -- filled with the sick and dying. When Watson alighted to his doorstep, he had hoped to see light in the fireplace, perhaps something bubbling on the hob. But the place was deserted, empty of life. But Holmes had left a note -- he had urgent business to attend to, and would return when he pleased. 

As Watson began to put together his poor excuse of a dinner, he reflected that no one could accuse the great Sherlock Holmes of being retired or nearly so. 

*

“Watson! Get up man, you nearly set yourself aflame,” said a familiar voice very near Watson’s ear. He started and remembered where he was -- in the chair next to the fireplace, his now-empty pipe had spilled on the floor. 

“Ah! So I have,” Watson said, stirring from his spot. “Pardon the mess, Holmes.” 

Holmes gave him a look that said he didn’t give a damn about the mess, and so it always was with them. “You’ve not slept lately, Watson.” 

“It isn’t like you to state the easily-deduced, Holmes,” Watson replied. “No, my patients keep me awake, though there is precious little I can do to help them, still.” 

“You are too hard on yourself, Watson,” Holmes said impatiently. “What are you thinking of, that the old -- like you and I -- live on and on, while the young die around us? My God, you think, was this terrible war not enough? How could all of this happen again?” 

“You know me too well,” Watson said, a little stiffly. “Though I do not know if I deserve such a mocking.” 

“I am not mocking,” Holmes replied. “Or -- not as such. I know your feelings not only due to our long association and because -- I share them.” 

“Of course you do, old friend,” Watson said relaxing a little, and feeling a little sheepish at his sensitivity. “If I wasn’t entirely too tired and no doubt covered in dried spittle, I would embrace you.” 

“Please contain yourself, Watson.” Holmes allowed himself a little smile. “Your sentiments are recognized. And appreciated.” 

“Very good,” Watson replied. “Now, will you make me breakfast?” 

“With the honey that you like?” 

“Yes, yes, with the honey that I like. Thank you, Holmes.” 

Holmes pretended not to hear him, but the suggestion of a smile on his lips as he turned away told a different story. Watson smiled back, simply happy for the first time in some time. He knew it would not last -- that the darkness would intrude again, but there were moments like these too, of wonderful light. 

He knew Holmes would accuse him of unbearable sentimentality -- and he would be right -- but Watson did not find it within himself to care. 

 


End file.
